


I'm Getting Married in the Morning, and I'm singing in the God Damned rain

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Wedding Fluff, and porthos/constance i think and Athos likes Sylvie, big poly mess, there's also athos/porthos/aramis/d'artagnan and various permutations, wedding disaster oh no!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 09:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13738092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Aramis and d'Artagnan are getting married, Athos and Porthos are being supportive boyfriends. Obv mostly about Porthos even tho Aramis and d'Art are the weddingees.





	I'm Getting Married in the Morning, and I'm singing in the God Damned rain

**Author's Note:**

> Titles are HARD

The hotel room is still and calm, morning barely breaking through the curtains just a little sunshine, the pale kind that’s warm only because the room’s warm. They left the blind up last night and there are just thin white curtains, ceiling to floor, filtering the light as it inches over the big tumbled bed. As the light reaches Athos, spreading over his pale naked back showing up his freckles all down to covers where they’re sliding off, he shifts and smiles, reaching out to turn off the alarm on his phone before it even starts chiming. Without opening his eyes he drapes himself over Porthos, pressing kisses to his shoulders and neck, nuzzling until Porthos groans and makes a wounded sound, hand closing around Athos’s wrist and dragging Athos closer, trying to still him. Athos laughs, holding on over Porthos’s chest.

 

“You can sleep a little longer,” Athos murmurs, lips right by Porthos’s ear. “d’Artagnan’ll be up with the sun but Aramis will probably sleep for days if he’s allowed.”

 

“He’s not,” Porthos says.

 

“No,” Athos whispers, excitement sending tingles skittering over his skin. “He can’t sleep today.”

 

“Go on, bugger off,” Porthos says.

 

“I can’t,” Athos says, nipping Porthos’s ear. “You’re holding onto me my love.”

 

Porthos chuckles, chest vibrating. Actually it’s more giggles than chuckles, it makes his curls bounce even though he’s pressed and smushed into the pillows. Athos kisses his cheek, stretching to reach. Porthos turns his head and lets Athos get his lips, which is much better even though Porthos has horrible morning breath. Athos bears it for the pleasure of Porthos’s skin against his, Porthos’s breath with his, Porthos’s mouth on his.

 

“Gotta go help d’Artagnan,” Athos says, breathless.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, turning to bury himself in the pillow again. There’s silence.

 

“Porthos you still have my arm.”

 

“ _My_ arm. Leave it here,” Porthos grumbles, going sleepy again already.

 

Athos laughs and extracts himself, Porthos letting go. He’s snoring again by the time Athos tiptoes out, showered and dressed in joggers and a jumper. His suit's over in d'Artagnan and Aramis’s room, they hadn’t trusted Athos and Porthos with their clothing. It’s shut up safe in the thick plastic, ready for later.

 

***

 

Porthos wakes to a hand resting on his cheek, thumb moving gently under his eyes, fingers curling just a little beneath his ear along his jaw. He sighs and kisses Athos’s wrist, the top of his palm, in the middle.

 

“That’s what you do with Athos,” Aramis says. “You think I’m Athos. Tch.”

 

“Did not think that,” Porthos says, biting Aramis’s finger.

 

“Ow!”

 

Porthos grumbles, smug, and shifts a bit in the bed making space for Aramis to stretch out beside him. Aramis mutters something about them supposed to be getting ready but then climbs in and snugs up with Porthos, jabbering idly about what needs to be done for today. Porthos dozes, not listening, enjoying the rise and fall of Aramis’s voice, familiar and warm. Aramis must doze off too, at some point; they wake again together, hand in hand, lying facing one another. Porthos smiles as Aramis blinks sleepily at him.

 

“You’re getting married today,” Porthos whispers, kissing Aramis’s nose as a ginormous smile breaks across Aramis’s face like sunshine.

 

“I am!” Aramis whispers back, as the sun comes out suddenly and floods into the room, as if the world is catching onto his joy. “I’m marrying d’Artagnan, can you believe it?”

 

“Not really,” Porthos says, setting Aramis laughing and wiggling happily.

 

Porthos leaves Aramis there, sprawled and hedonistic and sleepy, and goes to shower. Aramis has brought their clothes with him, Porthos unzips them from their covers and makes sure things are good and don’t need ironing or fixing or anything, then sets about laying out his supplies for hair and make-up. He calls down for room-service while he works, getting Aramis coffee with nice beans Athos checked out and recced, and some waffles, and lots of fruit. It arrives as Porthos gets done pinning pictures and things to a cork-board he brought - Aramis’s ‘look-book’ and ‘vision board’ and ‘magazine spread’ pictures of things he wants. They’ve come up with a look and they’ve tested everything out, Porthos has photos of Aramis pinned up and sketches. He does this for a living and he didn’t stint for Aramis just because he’s not getting paid this time. He goes to the door to get the room-service he ordered, meeting the man there so no one comes in, and Aramis sits up, yawning, hair sleep-mussed, skin creased. It’s well into daytime, now, no longer four am or whatever bloody ridiculous time Athos got up. Porthos takes coffee and breakfast over and they sit on the bed together.

 

Porthos expects laughter and talking, but there’s just quiet between them, settling first a little awkward then comfortable as they exchange a smile and their hands brush reaching for the maple syrup for their waffles. Porthos finishes first and shifts to sit cross-legged, watching Aramis. All the many long years Porthos has known him there’s been some cloud or worry or hurt across Aramis’s shoulders; anxiety and depression, difficult times growing up, losing his Mum, being queer in a shitty world, racism classism sexism ableism all the isms. Now, though, Aramis is idling. He’s not caught up in a cause, not worried about starting one, not off on a spiral trying to fix everything. He’s just… smiling. Light and carefree. He looks up at Porthos and his eyes are present and warm.

 

“He makes me happy,” Aramis murmurs, reaching for Porthos’s hand.

 

“We’re going to be late,” Porthos says.

 

“Yep,” Aramis says with relish.

 

Carefree and whatever, but still dramatic and plenty Extra. Porthos is glad. He leans forward, breath huffing on half laughter, and kisses Aramis’s sticky lips stealing the sugar from his breakfast. Aramis hums into it but he can’t help grinning which breaks it. They drink coffee, neither of them minded to rush things. Porthos wants to sit here and be with Aramis, there’s a soft kind of ache around his chest like when he used to have to bind. He rubs at it absently and Aramis notices, reaching out to take the hand and hold it in both of his, pressing a kiss to Porthos’s knuckles.

 

“Do we do my hair and face first, or clothes?” Aramis asks, resting his chin on their joined hands and smiling at Porthos.

 

“Dress last,” Porthos says. “Put whatever you have under on, though, especially if it’s going over your head. If you step into it I guess you can be naked for all the difference it’ll make.”

 

Aramis prances about in nothing but a vest for a while for that one. He eventually puts on a long sleeved white top and blue pants and some tights on and sits nicely for Porthos. They wash his hair, first. Porthos takes Aramis’s chair to the bathroom and they do laugh now, finding cushions and getting it so he’s at the right height to be able to tip his head back for the sink. Porthos puts a rolled up towel under his neck and Aramis sighs, relaxing, closing his eyes. They’ve done this a lot, like this, various places. Porthos always practises on his friends, he always has. There’s something intimate and connecting about washing the hair of someone you care about and Porthos loves the quiet moments and gossipy moments and just loves the closeness of it all. Now it’s quiet, Aramis sighing, smile never waning, pressing into Porthos’s hands sometimes, turning kisses into his wrists. Porthos focuses on getting his hair clean and using the right amounts of things to make it soft and silky, pliable. He takes longer than he strictly needs to and enjoys it, but he has to let Aramis sit up and towel through eventually. It’s still nice, gently massaging Aramis’s hair, Aramis still a bit sleepy. Then the hair dryer even though it isn’t perfect, it dries everything out in all ways. Porthos tuts about it as he finishes up, he always tries to use the towel as much as possible and leaves things damp.

 

“You’re all split-ends,” Porthos complains, dragging Aramis’s chair back out to the table with all his things set up, the mirror. “I’m going to give you a trim, you don’t look after your hair properly.”

 

He brought his scissors because he knows this about Aramis. Aramis wakes up a bit during the cutting, getting squirmy and annoying. Porthos holds his head still as he tries to look out of the window and text and read and sort through the stuff Porthos has set up around them.

 

“Leave it, it’s laid out proper,” Porthos complains, trying to get Aramis’s hands away from his things.

 

“The sky’s gone all grey,” Aramis says, turning to the window instead. Porthos finishes up with a sigh.

 

“If I snipped your ear off it’d be your own fault,” Porthos says, laying the scissors aside.

 

It starts to rain. Aramis wants his hair done in an inside-out plait and curled like a shell, asymmetrical. Porthos has done that kind of thing a lot especially since Frozen had everyone crazy for those plaits, but Aramis wants it _sculpted_ and _art_ so Porthos goes slow, layer by layer, carefully fixing everything in place. He uses too much hairspray, to make it all steady and unmoving. Aramis watches the rain, texts d’Artagnan, and sings ‘I’m getting married in the morning’ and ‘singing in the rain’.

 

“Do you want sparkles?” Porthos asks.

 

“Of course,” Aramis says.

 

Porthos has a box of hair spins, everything nicely sectioned off. Aramis picked some out already but Porthos doesn’t approve, he spends ten minutes now making a case for the less gaudy, more under-stated ones, and Aramis eventually gives in flopping back dramatically. His hair doesn’t move at all. Porthos admires his own work and makes Aramis flop about some more, filming it.

 

“Perf,” Porthos says.

 

“It’s pissing it down,” Aramis says. “Do I love that or hate that? Listen to it!”

 

It is thundering down. It’s like relaxation and white noise, but Porthos puts some music on in case it’s upsetting Aramis. He has a bunch of ‘hair-work’ playlists in different moods, he puts on his ‘happy but relaxed’ vibe and pulls out some of the grips holding Aramis’s hair down, moving them so there’s nice patterning places for the twists. They’re silver, subtle but bright against Aramis’s dark hair, Porthos arranges them to follow the lines of the updo but now and then puts one just out of place, pulling focus to Aramis’s features. His phone rings as he twists in the last one, careful to make sure it’s helping fix things and not tugging hair loose or out. He answers, jabbing the hands-free button, contemplating Aramis’s head, holding him still.

 

‘Hey,’ Athos says. ‘Are you guys getting close?’

 

“Not even,” Porthos says. “Mm. I think we’re done with hair though.”

 

“I want more glitz,” Aramis complains.

 

Porthos has a look through his things and finds earrings, which makes Aramis sad until Porthos exasperatedly shows him how they’re clip-ons, just good ones not clunky shit ones. Aramis grabs the box and tries them all on, one by one and in pairs, twirling about to ‘test’ them. Porthos takes Athos off speaker.

 

“Are we on a timer?” he asks.

 

‘Obviously,’ Athos says. ‘But no, you’re not late yet. Plus I think things will start late anyway, what with the weather. d’Artagnan’s a bit frantic about it but I’m doing ok keeping him calm.’

 

“The weather? The rain?” Porthos asks, smiling fondly as Aramis gets drawn into the mirror, pouting and making faces.

 

‘You haven’t checked your phone? You get weather whatever, right? Updates?’

 

“I guess. Why?”

 

‘There’s a storm coming, apparently. The wind’s up, there’s pretty hard gusts, the roads are fucked and everyone’s panicking,’ Athos says.

 

“Oh ok. Well, we’re in England, how bad can it get?” Porthos says. “I think Aramis is done preening, make-up next. Anything you needed babes?”

 

‘For you not to call me that,’ Athos says. ‘No, I just called you to call.'

 

“Aw, ok. Um, Ath?”

 

‘Yeah?’

 

“You know what we talked about the other night?” Porthos says, hoping Athos remembers - it had been after d’Artagnan’s stag night which was after Aramis’s stag night and they’d both been knackered, drunk, hungover, and they were smoking stuff.

 

‘Are you still sad about that? I thought you decided it was ok,’ Athos says.

 

“You’re nuts, you know that? How do you remember that?” Porthos asks, laughing.

 

‘Too much time spent fucked up,’ Athos says. ‘Are you good? You’re gonna manage?’

 

“Yeah, course,” Porthos says. Robustly. Athos chuckles. “I’m fine. You just called me.”

 

‘I did. Oh shit d’Artagnan just checked traffic reports again. The priest isn’t here yet. ie, it’ll be fine. Oh, don’t cry. Porthos is on the phone say hi,’ Athos says. d’Artagnan says a snuffly hello.

 

“It’ll all be grand,” Porthos promises. “If Aramis ever _sits the fuck down_ and lets me put his face on.”

 

Aramis comes obediently back from posing. He’d gone to open the wardrobe and get at the full length mirror and looks suitably chastised, though he’s grinning and being cute about it. Porthos checks his hair.

 

“You can’t wear these earrings,” Porthos says. “They’ll clash.”

 

“I like them, they’re classy,” Aramis says.

 

Porthos puts Athos and d’Artagnan on speaker until they decide to hang up and helps Aramis choose the earrings that aren’t bright pink feathers. He picks out white cascading ones, tinkling crystals. It’s a good look, Porthos wants him to wear both but he chooses just one. It’s ok, Porthos decides. Balances with the asymmetrical hair. Piratical.

 

“Rakish,” he tells Aramis, examining him critically.

 

‘I like rakish Aramis,’ d’Artagnan says. ‘I _like_.’

 

“You can’t see me before the wedding!” Aramis says, panicking, flailing about.

 

He hangs up on Athos’s laughter. He can’t hang up on Porthos’s so he glowers instead, while Porthos foundations him and does some basic contouring. Aramis has good skin, Porthos enjoys doing his face. He has such good cheekbones, too, such wonderful bone structure. Porthos hums idly along to his music as he works, kissing Aramis now and then (he’s all fluttery eyes and his mouth a little open, gazing at Porthos, being good and still). He kisses him soundly before he starts in on things good, he won’t be able to do much kissing until he fixes everything.

 

“I’m not sure how this is gonna go, it took three times last time,” Porthos mutters, examining the make-up spread before him dubiously.

 

Aramis wants to look striking and understated, colourful but stylishly bland. Porthos sighs. They’ve gone for mostly blues, with things darker and purple-er for shading, leading to more red in his lips and a bit of blush, just a hint across his cheeks to make them a little higher. Porthos does Aramis’s eyes four times before they’re both satisfied. Aramis wants more, Porthos wants less; Aramis wants pink, Porthos wants not-pink anything-but-pink; Aramis wants darker, Porthos wants highlight; they both want glitter.

 

“I like this,” Aramis says, eventually.

 

“Good,” Porthos says, stepping back to get a critical look. “Stop preening in the mirror and let me see, babe.”

 

Aramis gives him a dazzling smile and Porthos blinks it away, pushes away how beautiful Aramis is and focusses. He touches everything up, fixing smudging, redoes a few lines, takes another look. He lightens Aramis’s lips a little and touches everything up again. Fixing things in place is the last step, and the most fun - spraying Aramis in the face will never not be awesome. Aramis grimaces and flaps and whines and Porthos laughs, pausing to use a lip sealer and make sure he hasn’t changed the tone of Aramis’s skin or anything, examining him under brighter light. The playlist runs down and Porthos becomes aware, in the space left by the music, how loud the rain is. It sounds like stones being flung at the window.

 

“Do you think things are ok?” Aramis asks.

 

Porthos switches to a playlist with a little more of a party vibe and gets started on Aramis’s nails. He uses his glitters, and the gives Aramis fancy tips with the lacey transfers he got printed especially.

 

“Am I ready?” Aramis asks, softly, when Porthos finishes the last little finger. Porthos looks up at him, from crouching between his knees, and Aramis looks down at him, and Porthos kisses him. “You’ll smudge me.”

 

“I don’t care,” Porthos says, holding Aramis’s head carefully and kissing him thoroughly. “Don’t forget me, Aramis. When you’re married, don’t forget me, will you?”

 

“Never,” Aramis says, pulling away out of Porthos’s hold and stroking his cheek, cupping his face and making him stand up. “Never, of course not. Porthos?”

 

“Just… don’t,” Porthos says.

 

“Never,” Aramis repeats. “Never ever. Are you doing your hair and face, or going like that?”

 

Porthos hasn’t really thought too much about himself. Aramis pushes him cheerfully into the chair and puts on his _own_ music, a litany of love-songs and wedding themes, dancing behind Porthos as he haphazardly tugs and twists and brushes Porthos’s hair into… the very opposite of submission, Porthos thinks, looking in the mirror.

 

“Wonderful,” Aramis says, twisting silver threads into Porthos’s hair. Porthos shrugs. It’s not dreadful, he even quite likes it. Aramis beams, pleased as punch.

 

Aramis is never subtle, when he does make-up. He gives Porthos rainbow eyes and wings, purple lips, lined deep red, glittery gloss over everything. He tones it down just a little and then draws little silver stars over Porthos’s cheek and temple, just a smattering.

 

“I’m wearin’ a suit,” Porthos mutters. “Gonna fuck this up getting an undershirt on.”

 

“Wear a vest,” Aramis says, twirling off to get him one with a big neck. “Let’s do you first, so I don’t have to help you when I’m all done and too excited.”

 

It’s a good idea. Aramis gets frothy when he’s too excited and might just run off, leaving Porthos to fend for himself. Which is fine, he could do that. It’s nice to have Aramis helping him into his shirt, though. It’s a dark purple with a real subtle silver line and black pattern. Aramis leaves it open and strokes over Porthos’s chest and stomach, running his hands around under the shirt to clasp at Porthos’s back.

 

“I wouldn’t ever forget you, what made you ask that?” Aramis says. “You look hot in an undershirt, also, by the way. You could just show up in this and boxers and I’d be happy.”

 

“Alright, let’s go then,” Porthos says, Aramis giggling and holding him still.

 

“Noo! Don’t be a fool. And why did you ask?”

 

“Let’s not, eh?” Porthos says, gently extracting himself and doing his buttons, glad to have something to look at other than Aramis.

 

“Let’s not what?”

 

“I’m happy you’re happy,” Porthos says. “Let’s just leave it at that, the rest is my stuff.”

 

“Let’s not just leave it at that. What’s the matter?”

 

“Nothing!” Porthos says, snapping and shouting. There’s a crash at the window at the same time and Aramis jumps, his eyes going wet and shiny. He bites his lip and Porthos engulfs him in a hug. “Oh god I’m sorry. I’m just a grouch, I promise. I just got worried, ok? I love you.”

 

“Ok,” Aramis says, wrapping around his shoulders.

 

“Don’t!” Porthos says. “Don’t push your face into my shoulder, you’ll smudge.”

 

“You fucked up my eyes making my cry,” Aramis accuses.

 

It’s an easy fix - Porthos is _good_ at weddings, he _knows_ people cry at them, _everything_ is waterproof and over fixed. Aramis does the buttons on Porthos’s waistcoat, after. Plain black velvet, the buttons are silver. He ties Porthos’s bowtie, too - wine-red and silver - and helps him on with his jacket - purple but so dark it’s basically black. Porthos puts his own trousers on, batting away Aramis’s hands and kissing away his giggles, dancing them about to catch Aramis’s lips, ending up by the window. They both pause, looking out. It’s dark out there, the rain so hard it’s effecting what visibility is left, and the trees are bent down with the wind. As they look out a branch in the gardens comes crashing down, startling them, and a wheelie bin goes flying past.

 

“Dear God,” Aramis says, crossing himself.

 

“Come on, let’s get you dressed,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis’s white undershirt is tight, high-necked. He’s got a sleeveless dress to go over and he stands, arms out, letting Porthos arrange his clothing, tugging the dress closed and doing the zip at the side. The back has ribbons up it in an intricate pattern and Porthos is careful not to undo or fuck those up, he has no idea how Constance plaited and tied them so nice. She made this dress for Aramis specially, to fit over his shirt (he gets cold), to fit his chest and waist. The skirt is satin-like, though not actually satin apparently, plenty of material pushing the skirt out a bit. There are panels of lace that go over the top, and a band at the waist, a little high, of lace and glass beads. There’s a necklace to go with it, semi-precious stones, a wide band that closes all down the back of Aramis’s neck, around the high-neck of his shirt. There are tucks at the bottom of the dress, at the sides towards the front, shaping it so Aramis can walk, a bit of a train. He’s got high heels to go with it, silver and shiny, and an anklet that Athos gifted to him - a string of fine silver with amber. Athos, Porthos knows, considered many precious and semi-precious stones, even diamonds - he has all his mother’s jewelry he has plenty of stones that he could reset. He got very excited about obsidian, for some reason, but eventually he’d chosen amber. Not expensive, but ‘like sunshine’.

 

“You look beautiful,” Porthos tells Aramis.

 

“Do I look femme? Or do I just look like… a man in a dress?” Aramis says, turning anxious eyes on Porthos.

 

“You look beautiful,” Porthos says, firmly. “What’s wrong with a man in a dress? You look femme and beautiful and you _are_ a man in a dress.”

 

“I’m a gender fucker. I’m not _always_ a man,” Aramis says, pouting.

 

Porthos takes a picture and then they both jump as something thumps outside and the weather encroaches again. Porthos pats Aramis’s arm reassuringly then remembers.

 

“I have a present for you,” he says.

 

“Ok,” Aramis says, taking Porthos’s hand and following eagerly to Porthos’s bedside dresser. Porthos gets out the box, black and plain and ever so fancy, and passes it over. Aramis has to let go to open it and he pouts again but then his mouth falls open when he gets into the box.

 

“I thought they’d go with the dress,” Porthos says. “I found them at that shitty market Athos loves, they were right tatty and all undone, but I took them to Constance and we went online and found someone who makes lace who was close, nice woman called Elodie, she taught me how and helped me fix them.”

 

Aramis lifts one of the gloves out carefully and breathes deeply, blinking fast. Porthos takes the glove, white lace and soft cloth, and helps Aramis on with it, and the other. Aramis gazes at his hands, smile widening and widening until it makes the tears fall from his eyes. Porthos grabs a tissue and sorts him out.

 

“Thank you,” Aramis breathes, embracing Porthos. “I’m not pressing my face anywhere don’t worry. Oh, I love you.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, sniffing. Aramis’s music finishes and they can hear the rain and wind again. There’s plenty of thumping and stuff going on outside. Porthos sighs. “We should go. We’re late.”

 

“Excellent,” Aramis says. “They’ll all be in their seats, waiting for me. Come on, lets go find the rest of my train.”

 

Porthos offers Aramis his arm and they head out, through the oddly quiet hotel. Porthos texts Athos and Marsac’s waiting in hallway, just inside the part of the hotel rented for functions. He looks uncomfortable in a bad suit. Louis jr is waiting with him and he looks much better, very cute. He’s tall for six and he awaits Aramis gravely, but breaks into giggling laughter when he sees him and runs to hug him and Porthos both. Paulina’s there, in a suit, looking as fragile and stunning as she always does, and last but not least Treville. Who is technically in both Aramis and d’Artagnan’s trains. He catches Porthos’s eye and tilts his head. Porthos leaves Aramis amid the admiring arms of Paulina, the gruff affection of Marsac, the enthusiasm of Louis, and goes over to Treville.

 

“Is your suit from Tesco?” Porthos asks, disapproving.

 

“Yes. Constance made me a ceramic rainbow bowtie,” Treville says, pulling it out of a pocket. Porthos snatches it up and nudges Treville’s chin, which he grudgingly lifts to allow Porthos to tie on the bowtie. “The priest hasn’t shown, he can’t get through, and nor can Aramis’s brother and cousin. Sylvie’s stuck in the hotel down the road with d’Artagnan’s father and your mother, Samara made it down here but she came early to help Athos shout at the catering people. We have no food, only desert, only part of the catering staff got through. The dining room’s flooded anyway, and a tree came down on a power line somewhere so only the ballroom has lights. The chapel has many many candles, lots of battery ones, Athos has done it up a treat, but…”

 

“No priest,” Porthos whispers, pretending to be fussing at Treville’s suit. There’s plenty to fuss with. “Did you even try this on before you bought it?”

 

“Time and place, Porthos,” Treville says. “Anyway there’s a registrar at the hotel who can do it, but d’Artagnan’s adamant that Aramis will fall into a crumpled heap of weeping if there’s no priest.”

 

“Where is Mr priest? How far?” Pothos asks. “And what the hell’s going on? I’ve had music on and haven’t checked anything.”

 

“It’s the wind, it’s fucking everything up,” Treville says. “Also irrigation, because farmers don’t give a shit, so everything floods; we’re not in London, we’re middle of nowhere here.”

 

“It’s a city,” Porthos says. “There are two hotels on this street. Don’t be absurd.”

 

“It’s close to the river and they built on the floodplains,” Treville says. “Anyway, whatever the reason, the rain came down hard, it rained a lot recently, too much ice and that snow, and now… fwoosh. The priests is on the outskirts of town. The bridge is closed, he’s making his way around but there’s a lot of traffic and just one small bridge open.”

 

“Can we get him here faster? Theoretically?”

 

“Not really,” Treville says.

 

“You could get the police to fetch him,” Porthos says, then shoves Treville (chief inspector) gently before he starts yelling. “I know, I know, you can’t. Ok. Are there any churches nearby?”

 

“Oh, good thought,” Treville says, perking up.

 

Porthos gets out his phone and does a quick google maps. He finds a Catholic church not too far and calls them. There’s no answer.

 

“You think there’s someone there? Their web page says the priest is local,” Treville says.

 

“Go check,” Porthos says. “No, I’ll go check. No, you go. Shall I go?”

 

“I’ll go,” Treville says, kissing Porthos’s cheeks. “You keep things going here. Think of a solution to the food thing.”

 

Aramis looks up frowning when Treville hurries out so Porthos sweeps him up and dances them about a bit, until Aramis laughs, forgetting things. He leans on Porthos as they come to a halt, breathless and holding his shoulder.

 

“Porthos!” he says, beaming. “Are we going in? I’m to get married you know!”

 

“Not quite,” Porthos says. Athos comes sliding out the doors then, looking like a funeral director. It’s a very nice suit, all tight clinches and black and tailored, but Athos, just… he’s very handsome, just sort of … funereal. “Hi babes.”

 

“No,” Athos says. “We have to tell him, ie wants to see him he’s a bit flustered.”

 

“Ok,” Porthos says. “‘mis? The storm’s held up the priest, but we have things in hand - Trev’s gone for a back up and the priest’s on his way, there’s a backup to the backup. But things are going to be slow.”

 

There’s a moment of stunned silence, then Aramis laughs and shrugs, coming over to take Porthos’s arm. He demands music and a grand entrance and Athos hurries off to make sure everyone’s ready to applaud. Aramis walks in and beams around at his audience as they cheer and whistle. There’s a festive feeling about things, everyone here’s been dealing with the storm already. Aramis gasps and oohs and aahs over the candles and then spots d’Artagnan, waiting nervously for him. They hug and laugh and then sit to whisper, leaving Athos and Porthos at the back.

 

“So,” Athos says, settling shoulder to shoulder. “Problems: food, floods, guests. Solutions?”

 

“If Trev can fetch a priest Sylv can walk down the street.”

 

“She’s with d’Art’s Dad and your mum,” Athos says, then pauses. “Marie-Cessette is ready to set off and get here by boat if need be. She says she’s seen worse. She also says she’ll bring a goat for food, I think she was joking.”

 

“Yes,” Porthos says. “Though her half-brother’s mother makes amazing asun. Barbeque goat. They’re Nigerian. Mum’s British, and has been generations back, we’re a mish-a-mash of traditions, but no goat.”

 

“Right, I knew that,” Athos says.

 

“ie’s Dad’s not going to get here, though. Not since he got shot,” Porthos says. “Ok. We could drive?”

 

“It’s not very safe,” Athos says, frowning.

 

“I’ll take the Volvo, it’s built like a tank, we’ll be fine,” Porthos says. “It’s five minutes.”

 

“I’m timing you,” Athos says.

 

“Mum’ll have a solution to the food. Hopefully it won’t be ‘find a goat’,” Porthos says.

 

He takes off his jacket and waistcoat, passing them all to Athos who offers him a jumper in return. It is, apparently, one he confiscated from Treville (‘he came without a jacket?’, ‘he came without a jacket, and without a tie’). Athos gives him the car keys, too, and Porthos goes out. He changes his mind and goes back, kissing Athos thoroughly.

 

“Oh,” Athos says. “Yes, that’s reassuring.”

 

Porthos kisses him again and Athos huffs at him, nudging him away, and gentles him, cradles his face, strokes his cheek, fixes his makeup, and pushes Porthos off. Porthos goes again and this time gets all the way to the front. The lobby is rather busy, hotel staff gathered in little clumps, reception dealing with a line of people, more people sitting with cases. Porthos hurries through the chaos and out. The storm takes his breath - there’s a crash of thunder as he runs to the carpark and through, searching for the pink Volvo Athos drives everywhere. It’s hard to miss but the rain is vertical, until the wind blows hard enough that Porthos struggles against it, then it’s horizontal. He can’t see shit. He finds the car, thinks twice about driving.

 

“Fuck it,” he decides, starting the engine.

 

It’s not far to the other hotel they booked rooms but he has to creep along and by the time he gets there he’s so jangling with the adrenaline of near misses and trees crashed down and electricity that he bounds into the lobby whooping. There are similar scenes here, but also a contingent of wedding guests clustered around Alexander d’Artagnan and Sylvie. Porthos waves and rushes over, at once getting bundled into a hug by his mother.

 

“Come on,” Porthos says, breathless. “Anyone who can’t walk it, come with me. I have wheels, baby!”

 

“I can walk,” Marie-Cessette says.

 

“You’re coming with me, we need you,” Porthos says, firmly.

 

He takes her, Alexander d’Artagnan, some aunt and uncle belonging to one or the other of them, and Constance’s brothers, Jack who has mobility whatever, and Kit who is only eight. Kit starts up a nice jolly round of ‘I know a song that’s really annoying’, and Jack drowns him out with ‘it’s raining men’. Marie-Cessette, who has raised Porthos, Flea, Charon, a hoard of other foster kids and adoptees, shushes them sharply and quiet falls. She gets them singing psalms and Porthos laughs wildly as they inch along. They’re pulling into the car park when a wanker in a Rangerover too big for sense skids into their bumper. Porthos takes his foot off the break and slams down the clutch and they’re boosted forwards, coasting until they bump the pavement and the Rangerover comes to a sharp stop against them, jerking them all in their seats. Marie-Cessette climbs out to go yell.

 

“Mum,” Porthos mutters, but she’s gone.

 

Not to yell afterall. When Porthos and the others get out, assured they’re all ok and absurdly in a parking space, Marie-Cessette is firm friends with the guy in the Rangerover who is apparently a guest of the wedding. He parks up and they all struggle inside in the wind, bursting into the lobby soaking wet, Kit clinging to Porthos, Alexander d’Artagnan laughing, Porthos’s free arm behind his back to steady him while he leans heavy on a stick. Porthos looks them over and jogs up to his room, returning with towels. They brought dry clothes in the car and he chivvies them all into the cloak room so they can dry off, top up makeup, and make themselves presentable. Porthos goes back out to find Sylvie and the others, helping them the rest of the way and putting them in the cloak room too, catching sounds of joy and reunion as the guests brought in the car make it to the wedding party. Porthos makes sure everyone has what they need before hurrying back to find Athos. He’s in the hallways with Marie-Cessette, heads bent close.

 

“It’s not that there’s no one who can cook, they just don’t have the food. The hotel’s got way more guests than expected, they’re not sharing. There’s a Tesco down the road that’s open another few hours but it’s hardly going to stretch to catering a wedding,” Athos says.

 

“I will go and talk to the caterers,” Marie-Cessette says. “I’ll take my son with me.”

 

“Oh, ok,” Porthos says.

 

Athos comes too, hands in his pockets, shoulder brushing Porthos’s. He looks not quite so funereal afterall, Porthos thinks. Rather more like James Bond or something. Porthos kisses his hair and tutts, sorting it to lie better, not quite so much through-a-hedge-backwards. The caterers are sitting around the dark, wet dining room playing cards.

 

“The lights work in here,” Athos says.

 

“Nope,” one of the card players says. “They went out ten minutes ago, some hotel worker came to say it was the generator, it’ll be back soon.”

 

“Right,” Porthos says. “Find any candles, anything. Get some light in here. Some of you go down to Tesco and see what you can do with what’s there. Ask in the kitchens here for things they’re not using, stuff that’s past it’s sell by.”

 

“We have to stick to safety regs, boss,” the main caterer says, coming over. “We have no proper kitchen, either.”

 

“Get things that don’t need cooking then,” Porthos says. “And I said sell by, not use by. Just anything they can’t use but is still safe, use it. We don’t care. Where’s your van?”

 

“Stuck at the bridge, with the priest,” the caterer says.

 

“There’s a Chinese takeaway nearby,” Marie-Cessette says, peering at her phone through her bejeweled glasses with their colourful chain, Porthos remembers tangling his fingers in it all through his child hood, held in her arms. “Those never shut. Order food from them, I’ll bring up the menu let’s call them and see what they’ve got. This will be fine, Porthos. Off you go.”

 

Porthos and Athos hang around pretending to be useful for a while, but they’re spare parts now so they head back to the chapel. Aramis is weeping in d’Artagnan’s arms so Porthos goes to fix his makeup and cheer him up.

 

“You said Treville went for a priest, that was ages ago,” Aramis says. “Charlie says the other option is a _registrar_. I know I’m being dramatic, but I can’t… it has to be…”

 

“We’re not out of hope yet,” Porthos says, texting Treville furiously while Athos rings him and hisses conversation. Athos hangs up and texts Porthos that Treville made it to the church and there was someone there, they’ve gone together to knock up the priest. Sylvie comes in with a Tesco bag full of batteries for the candles in here and some battery powered fairy lights that cheer Aramis up a little. “Treville’s found where the priest is,” Porthos assures.

 

They put on some music and Constance comes from who knows where bearing snacks and drinks, passing them around with the help of Louis jr and Kit. Porthos sits next to Aramis, holding his hand, Athos on his other side, d’Artagnan holding Aramis. Athos reaches over and takes Porthos’s other hand, resting his head on Porthos’s shoulder, pressing a kiss there.

 

“Are you warm enough?” Athos murmurs.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says.

 

“You’re wet,” Athos says. “I have dry things.”

 

Porthos shrugs. He’s ok, the jumper is actually still warm - it’s wool. Athos grumbles about it being wet but gently, shifting so he can kiss Porthos’s neck, murmuring assurances.

 

“My makeup must be fucked,” Porthos mumbles.

 

“Little bit,” Athos says. “You looked amazing when you came in with Aramis, I got pics don’t worry.”

 

“Thanks,” Porthos says, and lets out a sigh. “Right. Problems?”

 

“Flood,” Athos whispers.

 

“Tables into the ballroom,” Porthos suggests.

 

“Too heavy, they’re ~fancy,” Athos says.

 

“How bad?”

 

“Wet,” Athos whispers, grimacing. “Bad enough. We can’t use it.”

 

“Space heaters?” Porthos says, Athos just snorts. “Tables, ballroom. Whatever tables, there must be some somewhere. What about… there’s another function room, right? Maybe that has trestles. I’ll go ask.”

 

“Sit a minute,” Athos says, squeezing his leg just above the knee. “I worried, you out in this.”

 

Constance comes and flops down with them, bringing them juice boxes. Porthos takes orange, all that’s left other than tropical juice drink with extra water or some shite. When it’s empty he gets up and goes to queue in reception.

 

***

 

Porthos helps drag the heavy trestle tables from the other hall the hotel rents. This one has not been done up fancy for weddings and marketing and they’re a bit jiggity, but once Porthos and a few of the other guests have put them up they do alright. Porthos surveys them, removing his hot wet jumper, then has an enjoyable ten minutes bossing everyone about so there are enough chairs, enough space for sitting and eating, and enough space for dancing. His Mum comes out from her enclave with the caterers to castigate him briefly for missing the table clothes and decorations then vanishes again. He gets Treville, then changes his mind and finds Constance and Athos to help him spread out the clothes that aren’t wet, making up the tables.

 

“Aramis spent hours on his seating plan,” Porthos says, examining the little place-holders; beautiful thick paper, fancy writing in gold and silver, each name making up the front of an envelope of seeds - bee-and-butterfly-loving flowers for their guests to sew - and rainbow party blowers - d’Artagnan’s addition.

 

“We’ve made sure there aren’t any disaster areas,” Athos says. “All problematics kept at safe distances.”

 

“Marsac far from Treville,” Constance says, smiling.

 

Porthos sets his name place-holder back on his plate. He’s seated between Athos and Aramis’s slightly odd uncle who’s sociable but no-one ever wants to socialise in return with. The other side of Athos is d’Artagnan’s cousin, who tends to get into trouble and likes to drink. Porthos had agreed this with Aramis and d’Artagnan months ago but he negotiated sticking Athos in with him. Athos had not been overjoyed to hear that, he’d refused to let Porthos watch Call the Midwife for a week. Porthos could have watched on his own but it always makes him cry, he prefers having Athos there and besides Athos remembers which episodes made him cry the bad way. Porthos examines the seeds and party blower, which promises to dust the near surroundings with rainbow confetti, the drawing of the bumble bee and butterfly on the seed packet is also rainbow, with silver and gold. Porthos feels he has been key to balancing d’Artagnan’s wish for a huge gay cabaret wedding with no traditional elements at all, with Aramis’s dream of gold and white and ever so tasteful right down to the over the top ornate carriage and white horses and princess poof dress and six tier cake.

 

“Porthos, you’re tearing that,” Athos says. “You’re going to get seeds everywhere and everything’s damp enough that they’ll grow.”

 

“I think both grooms would love to have a room full of butterflies,” Porthos says, blinking down at his hands. Athos’s come into view and close gently around his, taking away the things in his grasp, dropping them back onto the plate, lifting Porthos’s knuckles to his lips. “What’re you doing?”

 

“Taking care of you,” Athos says, turning Porthos’s hands to examine his palms. “Checking you weren’t hurt out in the storm and hiding it from me. I know you, Mr du Vallon.”

 

“So you do,” Porthos says.

 

“Sit,” Athos says, pushing Porthos gently into his chair, curling a hand under his chin, around the side his neck, looking down into him. Porthos looks back, letting Athos search his face. “You only look sad, not hurt.”

 

“I’m neither,” Porthos says, indignantly shaking his head loose of Athos, who snorts a chuckle and takes his head in both hands, holding tight and kissing him soundly. “What’re you doing _now_? That seems like it’s going somewhere. In the ballroom them tables might’ve been ok for sex but these’ll collapse. Maybe not under your scarce weight, feather boy.”

 

“I’m less than an inch shorter than you and plenty heavy,” Athos says. “I was keeping you from running off, anyway, not ravishing you on tables.”

 

“I’m not gonna run off, I don’t run off,” Porthos says. “Not me who runs off when feelings are involved. I’ll have you know it wasn’t _I_ who jumped out of the window at my parents house when my partner asked if I was going to mention anything about-”

 

“Do shut up,” Athos says. “Righteous indignation noted. You do not look sad, you look like a happy spring bunny leaping and hopping down to the egg shop for chocolate.”

 

“They should’ve put chocolates in those envelopes. I did try to persuade them, but neither went for it,” Porthos says.

 

“If you ever get married I will ensure there is plenty of the wedding that you can take a bite out of,” Athos says.

 

“Most people would say ‘when we get married’, not ‘when _you_ get married’,” Porthos says. Athos sits beside him. “That’s not your seat. You’re sitting on the awkward uncle.”

 

“Terribly sorry,” Athos says to the chair. “I got the wrong lap, do forgive the imposition.”

 

Porthos laughs as Athos transfers himself to Porthos’s lap, resting his arms around Porthos’s shoulders. Porthos lets his head fall against Athos’s arm, sighing.

 

“Got the impression you never thought about marrying me, nor wanted to,” Athos says, mildly. “I’m not particularly the marrying sort. Perhaps for taxes.”

 

“I always thought that Aramis would marry _me,_ ” Porthos whispers, closing his eyes against a sudden rush of tears.

 

“You mentioned. Had to get you more inebriated than the infamous drunken-sailor before you would, mind,” Athos says. “Turned into a bloody pickled jellyfish, it was rather wonderful - all squish and flounce and then lying dried out on a beach somewhere.”

 

“Squish and flounce?! Wow, thank you,” Porthos says, giggling a bit uncontrollably, pressing close to Athos. “That was poetic.”

 

“Mmhmm. Poetry is romantic, therefore, I have just proved I’m perfect marriage material,” Athos says.

 

“I used to imagine it. Way long ago when I was still at uni, him and me in our little tiny flat with the damp,” Porthos says. “We even talked about it. I thought, one day… one day he’d take me to a place that mattered, outside, plenty of sunshine. He’d get down on a knee, and that’d be it. There would be our happily ever after, spread before us.”

 

“What happened?” Athos obligingly asks, even though he already knows.

 

“Well, there was Marsac showing up from the dead, and he brought all Aramis’s old fears zombie-ing about,” Porthos says. “Boomeranging about. Sending us reeling. Didn’t want to do with me for a bit round then. And after that, I thought, we’ve been through the worst, but then I met Constance and Aramis thought I was cheating and then he was angry, and then he said he’d only thought it because he’d kind of hoped, and then we talked about and decided poly would probably be for us, and I thought well then _that_  will be the worst of it and here would begin our lives. And then he got that job in Chile, and I got that job in Birmingham. After he got back he was spending lots of time with d’Artagnan and I met you and that was a whirlwind, wasn’t it?”

 

“Literally, as I remember it the wind somehow blew you into me and you shoved me in a bloody fountain,” Athos says.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, grinning broadly. “What an accident that were.”

 

“ _You’re_ the whirlwind,” Athos says. “ _And_ an accident waiting to happen.”

 

“Next thing I know he’s asking me to help him work out how to propose to someone else,” Porthos says, tears starting again.

 

“Am I being indulgent or moving on to telling you you’re a numpty?” Athos asks, gentling his words the way he’s cradling Porthos close, rubbing over his back and shoulders, cheek resting against the top of Porthos’s head.

 

“Indulgent,” Porthos says, holding onto Athos.

 

“Hm. Ok. I know it’s a lot to feel, that’s ok,” Athos murmurs. “Whatever you feel.”

 

“You’re fantastic at this,” Porthos says, and Athos gets his fingers into Porthos’s side, tickling him and making him yell with laughter, squirming away and throwing Athos off, Athos jumping up.

 

“Can we get to you being a numpty _now_?” Athos asks. “Not for feeling, but your assessment of your ‘once i was in bliss with aramis and next thing bang! Here he is wedding another’. Your life moved on, you still love him and he adores you. If he had got down on one knee and asked you rather than d’Artagnan, what’d you have done?”

 

“I’d have probably been out the window, just like a certain someone I know,” Porthos says, getting up off his chair and trying to get Athos back for the tickling.

 

“I’m not ticklish,” Athos says. “Now, are you feeling better?”

 

“I guess so.”

 

“Excellent. In that case I can tell you - you need to … well. Everything, really. Shirt's coming untucked, it’s damp and a bit sweaty and creased, you're losing your make-up, and-”

 

“Not feeling _that_ much better,” Porthos says, frowning down at himself then up at Athos. “No one’d ever feel that much better.”

 

“C’mon,” Athos says.

 

He pulls Porthos along after him, laughing when Porthos trips over himself, turning back bright eyed but still gentle, touching Porthos’s cheek before yanking him off again, rushing them to a small room full of coats and things. Athos’s bag is dumped on a table there, he grabs it and and pushes Porthos to sit in its place on the table.

 

“Stay,” Athos says, thrusting his bag at Porthos. “Hold.”

 

He bustles off, fetching Porthos’s clothes, tucked and folded safe and careful on a chair. He sets the clothes down and starts undoing Porthos’s shirt.

 

“Here, hang on,” Porthos says, batting his hands away.

 

Athos just rolls his eyes and tugs a spare out of his backpack, carefully folded in a paper bag. He shakes it out and raises his eyebrows, muttering ‘I know you Porthos, always carry a spare to things like this’ when Porthos lets him undo the buttons. Porthos takes offence for the fun of it but not so much offence that Athos can’t do his buttons up and tuck his shirt into his trousers for him. He does Porthos’s bow-tie, helps him on with the waistcoat and jacket too.

 

“Now, we’ve got places to eat,” Athos says. “Stuff to eat thanks to your mum, fetched our guests thanks to you. Just the priest to go. Any news on Treville?”

 

“No,” Porthos says, pulling out his phone to check.

 

“Call him while I find something to wash your face with,” Athos says, bustling out.

 

***

 

“What?” Athos asks, when he comes back with a flannel and a bowl of water from who knew where.

 

“He’s found the priest, but he’s not quite Catholic,” Porthos says.

 

“Not quite?” Athos asks, coming and running the cloth over Porthos's features.

 

“Mm,” Porthos says, sighing and leaning into it. “Um, technically Catholic but now new age fancy dancy happy clappy.”

 

“Can he pretend?”

 

“Question Teville was hammering out was not ‘can’ but ‘will’,” Porthos says, jerking his chin up and huffing until Athos goes back to washing.

 

Porthos smiles into Athos’s hands, he’s so careful of Porthos, holding his face, humming as he works. He’s different than Aramis, for one thing it’s Porthos who taught him how to do this and he’s not been doing it long. He sticks to the simple things. He also spends more of his concentration on what he’s doing and less on kissing Porthos. It’s nice, being the center of that laser focus. There’s a tap on the door and d’Artagnan sticks his head in.

 

“There you are, we’ve been going mad for looking,” d’Artagnan says. “Treville has found a priest!”

 

“He agreed then,” Porthos says.

 

“Shh,” Athos says, irritable, holding Porthos’s chin to stop him moving.

 

“And Marie-Cessette has got things sorted for food, and everyone’s here, and things are perfect,” d’Artagnan says, beaming. “Aramis is very ready to be married, he’s pissed at you for vanishing off the face of the earth Porthos.”

 

“I went to fetch people, sort the food, sort tables to eat at, sort a priest,” Porthos mutters. Athos makes a sharp noise, frowning sternly. “Shutting up. We’ll be out in a min d’Art, go fuss over your nearly-husband.”

 

d’Artagnan’s breath catches and he bounces before rushing away. Athos sniggers and kisses Porthos’s forehead before finishing his work. They don’t leave at once, staying for a bit just in the quiet. Porthos shuts his eyes and wraps himself around Athos, waiting for Athos to tip his head back to kiss him.

 

“Shall we?” Porthos says, offering his arm.

 

“Let’s go be supportive boyfriends,” Athos says.

 

***

 

Porthos holds Aramis’s hand tightly, waiting outside the doors to be cued. Aramis has already cried and had his make up fixed once, and they’ve done a lot of hugging, and now it’s time. Aramis is not entirely happy about his big fairytale wedding disintegrating a little bit, but he’s right now just hanging onto Porthos and waiting, eyes on the door, trembling just a little, head held high. The collar of his shirt and his bright necklace draw Porthos’s eyes up to his face, to the beautiful, stubborn tilt of his chin, the bitten lip keeping back nerves and smiles in equal measure, and his eyes. He turns to glance at Porthos and lets out some of the smiles, eyes brightening with excitement and pleasure. He lets go Porthos’s hand and takes his arm instead just as Constance opens one door to check they’re ready, then opens both, the music striking up.

 

“Ready?” Porthos asks.

 

“No, wait,” Aramis says, turning to him, searching his face. “Am I, is this right? Are you, are we, are you and me good, Porthos? Is it making you unhappy? Am I mucking things up again? Is this the most stupid choice of my life?”

 

“Who knows?” Porthos says, smiling, meeting his eyes and holding the back of his neck a moment, kissing his cheek. “I’m not unhappy. I’m full of nothing but joy for you, to see you so happy. You and I are very, very much ‘good’. As for choices, this is one you made, this is something you decided, something you thought about and thought ‘yes’. And now we are here, and you have another choice.”

 

“I want to marry him,” Aramis says, beaming. “Obviously.”

 

“Quite obviously,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis kisses him before striding off, remembering not to and coming back to fetch Porthos, settling demurely at Porthos’s side, on his arm, and walking sedately instead of stomping. Porthos stifles his laughter and sets off at their practiced pace, watching Aramis look up at people from under his lashes, performing for them until about halfway to the front when he spots d’Artagnan stood waiting for him and forgets everything, beaming and beaming, eyes only on his fiance. Porthos walks him right up to the front and embraces him, ruffling his dress and straightening everything when he's done, and then embraces d’Artagnan too, finally settling next to Athos and taking his hand while the priest introduces d’Artagnan and Aramis to their friends and family. There are plenty of rainbows in the seats, and more traditional clothes, all mixed together. Porthos shifts a little and takes Constance’s hand, too - she’s followed them up.

 

The readings are more fun than Porthos expected - Athos goes first to tell a little sarcastic but very heartfelt story about how marriage might succeed in his very experienced view, then Constance with some poems, and finally Porthos stands up and then sits back down, nerves or tiredness or emotion getting the better of him. He stands up again and heads for the little podium, and addresses himself to d’Artagnan and Aramis alone. He’s supposed to be standing up for Aramis and he does say some nice things, but he moves quickly on to knowing and loving both of them and then he can sit down again to watch the vows. Watching two of the people he loves most in the world make a sacred commitment makes him feel so many things. He holds onto Athos and cries, beaming, and cheers when they kiss, and keeps on cheering until d’Artagnan hurries over to fling himself into Porthos’s arms.

 

“I’m married!” he yells. “I haven’t seen you enough today, Porthos, hello! I’m married! I’m mr Aramis! God I love you, all of you. And you!”

 

He turns back to Aramis, out of Porthos’s arms and kisses him again, hugs him, cries into his shoulder, kisses him again, and then yells more about loving him. Aramis shepherds d’Artagnan to Constance and comes to Porthos, embracing him warmly. Porthos holds him a moment, letting him stand quietly. Then Aramis goes to reclaim his over excited _husband_ and they do more hugging and kissing, of each other and other people. Porthos will need to help Aramis change, in a bit, out of the dress and into his next outfit. And then again later, for the night time party. There was supposed to be a bunch more guests coming for the party later, drinks and dancing, but Porthos isn’t sure anyone’s getting anywhere. For now he needn’t worry. For now he can stand here and beam and hug people and hold Athos’s hand and burst from how much he loves everyone here.

 

***

 

The storm has ended, and so has the party. Aramis has been carried to bed by Porthos, drunk and weeping with joy. d’Artagnan has been peeled out of the chair he sat down in two hours ago, giving up on keeping up with Aramis’s dancing, and also guided to the right room and bed. Athos and Porthos have left them entangled on the bed and gone down to finish getting the last of the guests either out to other hotels or to go to their rooms here, by the time appointed by the hotel (or only a little late, at least). They’ve gathered up left over bottles of wine and juice and cider and beer, made sure the wedding gifts are all up in d’Artagnan and Aramis’s room, and made sure everything people have left is gathered and put in lost and found. They haven’t done it alone, of course - Constance, Treville, and Marsac all helped. And now it’s so late to be early and the room is dim, almost dark - the curtains are open, letting in the moon. Post-storm the sky is very clear. Porthos is stood by the window sipping a glass of champagne, looking out at the destruction left.

 

“Look,” he says, as Athos comes out of the bathroom and sprawls on the bed, naked. “There’s a statue of T’Challa out there.”

 

“What?”

 

“I think it’s from a cinema or something, it’s cardboard and a bit worse for wear but he’s standing out there in the carpark, keeping watch. Or being ominous, dunno which,” Porthos says.

 

“Why are we not going to sleep?” Athos asks.

 

“Dunno about you, but I’m still drinking,” Porthos says, perching on the window sill and switching from watching T’Challa to watching Athos, stretching, beautiful in his skin and moonlight. “I’m drinking to you.”

 

“Cheers,” Athos says. “Bottoms up.”

 

“Mm, good idea,” Porthos says, running his eyes over Athos’s thighs and stomach and chest and arms, and the bottom in question when Athos turns over to reach for something. “Go on then, over you go.”

 

Athos flops onto his back again and pulls a pillow over his head and laughs, muffled but joyful. Porthos finishes his champagne and rests his head against the wall.

 

“Did you see Sylvie tonight?” Athos asks, peeking out from behind the cushion.

 

“Mm?” Porthos says.

 

“She was beautiful. Do you think I might ask her out?” Athos says.

 

“You’ve got my permission,” Porthos says, grinning. “Seen the way you look at her.”

 

“I wasn’t asking permission, not yet,” Athos says. “I was asking if you thought she might say yes?”

 

“Dunno,” Porthos says, resting his eyes a moment.

 

“Come to bed,” Athos says. “Unless you’re drinking more, or going to find Constance or someone who wants to go bottoms up in the moonlight.”

 

“I’m coming,” Porthos mumbles. “To bed, I mean.”

 

“Excellent and necessary clarification,” Athos says. “I can’t tell the difference between you falling asleep against a wall and you having a riotous orgasm.”

 

He’s gotten closer and Porthos feels himself being dragged to his feet. He takes a last look at T’Challa standing guard outside and then falls into bed, bundling Athos into his arms. Athos quickly bundles himself back out and lies instead on top of Porthos, pressing sleepy kisses to his collarbone and chest. Porthos hums and manages to scritch Athos’s hair encouragingly before falling asleep, tumbling into dreams.

  



End file.
